Confessions of an Undead Warlock
by Bons Baisers
Summary: I found this blank book while scavenging in Cold Hearth Manor, and an ally suggested using it as a personal journal. I may never write here again. But Zhorana swears it is a useful pastime, and in a foolish wish to please her, I pen these thoughts.


I think the worst of it was the memories… recognizing that all I had known or enjoyed or cherished had vanished into the mists of time, never to return. I think I cried, but I can't say for sure. I couldn't feel the wet on my face, if there were tears. I couldn't – can't – feel anything at all.

When I had collected my wits about me, I ventured out of the dank, dark mausoleum that had housed my slumbering corpse. As I recall, all I knew for certain was that I was not among the Scourge any longer. The Lich King's hold over me was broken, and I would not be enslaved again. I didn't know where I was, exactly, but I did know that if it were anywhere near his undead hordes, I wanted to be away as swiftly as my bluish, rigid, rotting feet would carry me.

Stumbling out of the mausoleum, I saw another undead and braced myself for the fight I knew must come. That my escape from the Lich King might not be unique did not occur to me, until Mordo raised his hands to me in greeting. Still wary, I stayed well away from him while he explained the mission of Lady Sylvanus. He sent me into the town below us to speak with Shadow Priest Sarvis. Wandering through that desolate place, finding others like myself, neither dead nor living, neither slaves nor really free, I felt ice settle around my heart, and that was the last thing I could remember feeling for a very long time.

We are not a kind people, the Forsaken. What manners were instilled into us as living children have long since fallen by the wayside. We tend to be short and abrupt, even among friends, always cautious, always careful, never completely at ease. We do not belong to this world, a truth that we are never free to forget, not for a moment, for there are many who begrudge us our existence here. The few who cling to their gentle human ways do not long survive.

And yet, it is those few who have left the greatest impressions on me, who have, over time, thawed a bit of my frozen heart. Inadvisable but close associations with living Horde agents have also warmed the chill that my awakening that bleak morning in Deathknell cast over me.

This is unfortunate, for me. As I have been reminded any number of times, warlocks cannot afford tender hearts. Our lives depend upon our ability to manipulate others to our own ends. Mercy is a liability.

I suppose, in the end, becoming a warlock was a rejection of my life before the plague, a rejection of my very self. My name was Mercy Faraday, back then, and I wanted nothing to do with her. I found this blank book while scavenging at Cold Hearth Manor in Tirisfal Glades, and while until now I had no plans for it, an ally suggested using it as a personal journal. I may never write here again. But Zhorana swears it is a useful pastime, and in a somewhat foolish wish to please her, I have put these thoughts to paper.

I am Darkmourne. I am Forsaken. I am hunted, hated, reviled, and feared. But even as I write, the barbaric-but-good-humored, tusk-bearing smile of the troll Zhorana is pointed in my direction. Behind me, Garrath Lighthoof stands guard over our peculiar little party, while his creature, a massive lion, prowls through our camp, begging for scraps. Ullog Windtalker is setting up a talisman off to Zhorana's left, mumbling to himself in the rough, gravelly tones that have become so familiar to me, keeping the company I do. Of these odd friendships, Zhorana's has become most treasured to me, for it was the most dearly bought.

I can't remember now why she came to Undercity – in truth, I'm not even certain that she ever told me why. It might have been that one of her trainers sent her there. Or perhaps she accompanied a group of more powerful companions, and they abandoned her to the labyrinthine halls below the ruins of Lordoran. Or her own free-ranging spirit may have brought her to my door – she is a most curious individual. But however she came to be here, her presence proved fortunate for me.

I should not have acted upon Executor Zygand's orders immediately; I was inexperienced and weak, and nearly died (again) in the attempt to slay the agent of the Scarlet Crusade. Melrache's bodyguards were dead, but then, so was Jubrin, my imp. Only Melrache and I remained in that terrible tower, but he was in better shape than I. He raised his arm for the final blow, and I, exhausted, could do nothing to defend myself. Then he crumpled to the floor, dead.

Where there had been nothing but blank walls, a troll appeared behind Melrache's corpse, a savage look on her face. I stared, bewildered at this unexpected deliverance.

"What're you looking at, rot-breat'?" she sneered, flicking blood from her dagger. "Ain't never seen a troll before?"

I would have called Jubrin back to me at that point, had I the mana to summon him. She had tiny, but extremely sharp tusks and high, arcing eyebrows, a fiery mane of red hair, and smooth blue-green skin. She was attractive, as trolls go, though her expression was anything but pretty.

"I suppose thanks are in order," I said, finally finding my voice.

"T'anks don't mean not'ing if dey jus' words," she said cryptically.

Her abrasiveness was beginning to wear on me. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I mean," she said in a blunt, even tone, "dat you wouldn'ta done da same for me."

"You don't know that."

"Wouldja?"

I blinked. The answer was 'no,' of course, but I couldn't very well tell her that.

She raised her brows and pursed her lips, a clear 'I told you so.'

"What are you doing here?" I asked, looking for something else to talk about.

"Notcher concern."

I pursed my own lips, and then turned on my heel to walk away. A shout spun me round again, and I saw that somewhere in the shadows I had missed an enemy. The red-clad human girl had attacked the troll, and it became quickly apparent to me that the troll was entirely out of her depth. Melrache must have been closer to death than I had realized, for her single strike to have taken him down.

I hesitated, for a moment. I didn't much like the girl's attitude, but then again, I didn't much care for the ugly-sounding words spilling from the human's mouth, either. The troll landed a solid blow, but it wouldn't matter, soon. She was wearing down, out of energy and badly injured.

There wasn't time to order Jubrin to return to me, so I cast a spell of weakness on the human and gathered myself for an attack of my own. I hurled a Shadow Bolt at the blonde human girl and managed to get her attention away from the troll.

"Leave the whiny little troll alone, bitch," I taunted, knowing she couldn't understand me. I prepared to launch another bolt at her. She struck me, and while I lost my concentration briefly, I did finish the attack, and she staggered a little. Drawing my little knife, I lashed out at her.

"Die, human," I hissed, and with a final swipe I slit her throat. She fell, and I tossed a minor healing potion on the ground. It rolled to the troll's feet.

"You'd do well not to judge your betters," I remarked blandly. "Especially those who are considering escorting you back to the Zeppelin. You should return to Orgrimmar. The Glades are too dangerous for the likes of you."

As she sputtered incoherently, I couldn't resist a final dig. "You see, my dear, we Forsaken can be just as rude and thoughtless as trolls, when we're of a mind."

She stopped sputtering. "And as ready ta aid an ally?" she retorted scathingly. "You wouldn'ta, not if you wasn't wanting to make a point."

"True," I admitted, shrugging. "I usually make it a point to stay out of other people's business. I have trouble enough of my own."

"We Darkspears look out for each other."

"How nice for you."

I suppose there must have been something dark in my tone, because her eyes widened with incredulity. "You be bitta."

"Don't be ridiculous."

She narrowed her eyes. "You don care dat you don have dat here." It didn't sound like an accusation. In fact, it was almost a question.

"No."

She drew herself up. "You lie."

That angered me, and I turned my back on her as I began the spell that would bring Jubrin to me.

"Aw, damn, I really thought you kicked the bucket this time, Darkie," Jubrin groaned as he materialized beside me. "Guess I'm stuck with you a while longer."

"You're lucky to have me, Ju," I reminded him, twisting one of his long ears around my finger. He whimpered, and I released him. "If you'd said that to Kaal Soulreaper, there wouldn't be enough left of you to bury."

The imp blew a raspberry at me, rubbing at his ear furiously. "That _hurt_, Darkie."

"Remember who your mistress is, and you won't get hurt," I said patiently.

The troll girl suddenly appeared at the doorway. I hadn't seen her leave.

"Dere be a lot of wannabe crusaders out dere," she said. "Are you comin or arncha?"

I stared at her for a minute. She wasn't exactly relaxed, but the hostility I had sensed from her had faded significantly.

"Go get that warrior's attention, Ju," I ordered after that moment's pause.

"Can't we all just get along?" he complained, even as he prepared for his attack. The girl faded into the background, reappearing behind the warrior just after Jubrin's attack landed. She drove her dagger deeply into the man's back. I set him on fire. Between the three of us, he didn't last long. Neither did any of the other Scarlet Warriors we encountered.

When finally we made it back into the glades, away from the tower, the troll pushed ahead of me, then planted herself directly in my path, crossing her arms.

"I be Zhorana." It seemed as if daring me to contradict her.

"I go by Darkmourne," I answered cautiously.

"Darkie," she said with a smirk. Jubrin cackled behind me, darting away as I reached for his ear.

"It be folly, but I t'ink I like you, Darkie." She thrust out her hand, and didn't even wince as I settled my bony, slimy fingers against hers. "Come wit me."

I frowned. "To Orgrimmar?"

"No, ta Darnassus." She released my hand, only to smack me smartly on the forehead. I bared my teeth at her, but she scarcely seemed to notice. "Of course ta Orgrimmar, rot-breat'. Dere be an orc warlock you oughta meet. Frienda mine. You like him. Gotta lot in common, I tell ya true."

Overhead, the Zeppelin swung in, lumbering toward the Ruins of Lordoran and the Undercity. She took a step back and crossed her arms again, tapping a foot impatiently.

"Are ya comin', or ain't ya?"

It didn't take me long to decide. Not long ago, I had been in Brill, and due to my unwitting assistance, a helpless, captured prisoner had perished. From that point on, I had determined not to aid the Royal Apothecary Society, no matter what the reward promised might be.

I don't mind killing. I'm good at it. My demon minions are especially good at it. But destroying people who cannot fight back stirs uncomfortable memories of humanity in my shredded excuse for a soul.

I pushed forward past Zhorana, who glared at me. "We've missed this Zeppelin," I remarked. "But there'll be another soon. We can probably catch it, if we hurry."

Zhorana's scowl turned upward in a feral grin. "Den let us not be wastin' any mo' time, Darkie."


End file.
